


Of birthdays and confessions

by A_fighter_like_Eowyn



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Declarations Of Love, Dorks in Love, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Friendship/Love, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Idiots in Love, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Love, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Boys, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:15:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29377662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_fighter_like_Eowyn/pseuds/A_fighter_like_Eowyn
Summary: Jaskier does not think Geralt remembers his birthday. After all, all these years, he has never even made a mention of it, and Jaskier too has never brought it up. So what changed this year?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 130





	Of birthdays and confessions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Geraskier_Rights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geraskier_Rights/gifts), [panofaar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/panofaar/gifts).



"Are you sure you do not want me to come?", Jaskier asks, eyeing Geralt with considerable suspicion while unpacking his saddlebag, "For the last few months you have been surprisingly considerate of my requests to join you on your hunting quests. Why not tonight?"

"Because tonight, if my hunch from what I have gathered from the villagers here is correct, then I hunt a pack of werewolves. At least four of them. And you know very well how vicious and bloodthirsty these monsters are when it comes to humans", Geralt explains, unusually patient. It makes Jaskier narrow his eyes even further.

"Yeah but that sounds dangerous even by your standards. Are you certain this is a contract you want to undertake alone? Perhaps you could call for aid ... Eskel or Lambert, or perhaps even Aiden ..."

"Jaskier, I'll be fine."

"Sure, that's what you say every time, scamp! And then you come back dripping blood from gaping wounds, raked by claws and fangs within an inch of your life, and then _I_ have to patch you up, bathe your injuries, make sure you live to see the sunrise the day after ..."

Jaskier's undeniably panicked babbling is cut short when two palms come to rest heavily on his shoulders, making him look up into his favourite amber-gold eyes. It's a marvel that such an act of intimacy, of initiation of physical contact from Geralt's side no longer surprises him as much as it used to even a few months back. Something has changed in this last half a year ... something new and tender and beautiful is blossoming between the two friends (even though Geralt still stubbornly refuses to openly address Jaskier as his friend).

"Breathe, Jaskier. I'll be fine. Truly."

Jaskier is not one bit reassured. He furiously clamps down on his lower lip to stop it from beginning to quiver like an autumn leaf. "You have no sense of self-preservation. You are entirely too reckless, Geralt. Please, can I come with you? Maybe I can be of some help ... I could ..."

"I promise, Jaskier. I shall take every precaution possible. See, here -- I have all my potions newly brewed and the bottles refilled, and I bought a new concoction from the healer-mage in that last village we were in -- a special herb which negates most of the pernicious effects of a werewolf bite."

Jaskier looks down at his feet, with his lips pressed in a thin line. He knows he is being obstinate, but he is so very worried ...

"I don't want to lose you, Geralt."

The words are quiet -- so quiet that even a mutant such as Geralt needs to strain his ears to hear them right. And when he does, something breaks inside him. Something that releases a rush of warmth tingling every nerve-ending in his body.

"Jaskier ..."

"Especially not tonight."

These last three words are spoken even more quietly. 

Jaskier knows that Geralt does not know -- Geralt has no idea how special this day is for him. Jaskier knows, and is quite cheerfully resigned to the fact that he cannot survive without Geralt. The day Geralt leaves this world, so will he, and he will follow his companion -- his mate, if he is being honest with himself -- to wherever it is that people go to after death. 

_But to lose Geralt on his birthday ..._

"Jaskier, look at me."

The bard is jerked back into reality from his maudlin, dark musings by that firm, rumbling baritone that he loves so much.

"I am coming back tonight. I am coming back to you. Alive and in one piece. You have my word."

Geralt has now let go of Jaskier's shoulders. Instead, his hands are clasping Jaskier's, and it is all the younger man can do not to melt from the heat of the calloused palms and fingers enveloping his hands.

"Promise?"

"Promise. You trust me, right?"

****************************************************************************************************

Jaskier has had a very long evening. He has performed near non-stop for the last three hours -- his throat has been chafed raw singing whatever the audience demanded, his feet are sore and his calf muscles and knees aching from the way he has danced around the tables. The earnings have been worth it, though. 

He is very hungry too. But Geralt has not yet returned, and Jaskier does not like to eat without him. For the last few months, it has become almost a routine -- Geralt has waited for Jaskier to conclude his performances before ordering dinner, and Jaskier has waited up for Geralt until he returned from his hunts. And this time, the innkeeper, doubtless very happy with Jaskier's performance attracting more customers to his inn, has graciously reassured Jaskier that dinner will be served, promptly and warm, no matter how late Geralt returns from his werewolf-slaying assignment.

Jaskier unlocks the door to his shared room with Geralt and walks in, one hand clutching the lute-case and the jingling coin-purse, the other holding a freshly lit lantern hoisted high. The two beds stand on either side of the room, and in between, against the wall opposite the door, stands a cabinet and a chamber pot and wash-basin. He walks to the cabinet on slightly swaying feet and places the lantern on top of it.

And when he turns around, ready to totter over to his bed and fall face-forward onto the lumpy mattress (refusing to wake up until Geralt comes back and shakes him awake -- so tired is he), his eyes land on ...

_A large woven bamboo box with a lid. And right next to it, a bouquet -- put together by inexperienced hands, yet beautiful beyond measure._

Jaskier forgets to breathe for a while. He just stands rooted to his spot, eyes wide, jaws hanging partially open.

Then he dashes to the bed, all exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

He picks up the bouquet first. He can tell that the flowers it is made up of were not bought from the market nearby, for their ends are clearly not snipped by a pair of scissors. Instead, they seem to have been plucked with a lot of care from the wilderness, collected perhaps from meadows or the shores of a lake close by, and they look and smell _divine_ !

_There are morning glories -- deep purple, vibrant pink, ethereal blue -- all evidently preserved and kept fresh by a touch of magic._

Jaskier recalls telling Geralt many years back, while trudging through a meadow in the wee hours of dawn and grumbling about having to wake up at ungodly hours, how much he adores morning glories. How much the sight of them in early mornings brightens up his day, fills him with hope for good things to come.

_There are the very familiar looking bright golden blossoms of the Indian mallow, tinged with fiery orange, and interspersed with them, the vivid violet-blue butterfly pea flowers with their pale yellow centres and their petals resembling the wings of fairies._

Jaskier remembers confessing to Geralt, during one of his all-too-frequent bouts of homesickness, how much the mallow flowers and the butterfly peas remind him of his mother -- a healer by profession and passion, she has always favoured the medicinal qualities of these herbs. He even recalls brewing a nice hot tea for Geralt after he came back from a particularly trying hunt several years back, with crushed butterfly pea petals, dried lemongrass, lemon and honey.

_He sees the pale green-and-purple blossoms of the crown flower, the brilliant sunshine-yellow blooms of the rattlebox, the pure white creeping foxgloves, and dotting everything, the tiny yet fiercely deep violet-magenta heliotropes._

He remembers that he once described to Geralt how his parents pluck basketfuls of crown flowers as an offering to the presiding deity of their home. He reminisces about that one time they went up to the mountains in the north-eastern part of the country, and they discovered an entire hill with its slopes covered in dense rattlebox shrubs -- he fondly thinks of the garland he wove out of the golden-yellow blossoms and fastened around Geralt's head like a circlet, and how utterly majestic and out-of-the-world the Witcher looked sporting that.

The foxgloves remind Jaskier of a time when he and Geralt chatted amicably about their shared love for butterflies, and how elated Jaskier had been upon learning from his friend that bees and butterflies especially favour the creeping foxgloves. And he reminisces that one evening that he chose to forego strumming his lute in favour of telling Geralt mythological tales he learned as a student in Oxenfurt, and how they talked about the nymph Clytie who loved the sun god Helios -- rejected and heartbroken, she had wasted away and morphed into a heliotrope flower, doomed to always look towards the sun.

"Oh, Geralt!", he sighs, the name leaving his lips with the breath he did not know he was holding. 

Gently laying the bouquet by his pillow, Jaskier picks up the bamboo box. The lid opens to reveal rows of honey-cakes that are still dripping honey, dried figs and plump, juicy dates, mithais made of sweetened, thickened milk, nuts and pistachios, and a couple of glass jars, covered in brown paper and wrapped in twine, filled to the brim with mango and guava jams.

Geralt is no stranger to Jaskier's sweet tooth and voracious appetite for mithais, cakes, cookies and jams. And he knows full well how earnestly Jaskier misses the mango, guava, mulberry and apple jams and murabbas that his father makes and sells every weekend at the farmer's market back home.

Jaskier feels something wet trickling down his cheeks. He blinks through the mist of tears, trying not to be overwhelmed by the emotions that course through him as he gazes at the contents of the box.

*****************************************************************************************************************

Geralt comes back late from the hunt.

In truth, it was only one werewolf -- a particularly malevolent one -- that was marauding the village, and it proved not very difficult to hunt it down. He has sustained only a few scrapes and bruises in the process. All in all, he is happy he has been able to keep his promise to Jaskier.

He is also fervently hoping that Jaskier is asleep by now. 

_Because Geralt has never felt more vulnerable in his life._

What on earth is he supposed to say if Jaskier asks him whether it is him who left all those sweets and flowers lying on the bard's bed? Obviously it cannot have been anyone else -- so then Jaskier will move on to ask him _why_ he bothered, and how is he supposed to reply to that? He is shit with words and shittier with confessing complex emotions -- so how is he supposed to wriggle his way out if Jaskier confronts him right now?

To be honest, Geralt has no idea what would happen in the morning, if by some sliver of luck he finds Jaskier asleep now and is able to evade all conversations until the next day.

Geralt's mutant heart picks up speed as he enters the inn after stabling Roach -- it is positively racing by the time he reaches the door to his and his bard's room.

Quietly -- almost stealthily -- he nudges the door open and enters the room, and nearly collapses to the floor in relief. The room is dark, with any and all candles / lanterns snuffed out. He can hear Jaskier's steady, peaceful breathing from one side of the room -- the bard seems sound asleep. Geralt hastily tiptoes to the other side, and soundlessly flops down onto his bed. Not bothering to undress lest the sounds wake up his companion, he lies rigidly in his bed and tries to calm his hurtling heartbeats.

"So this is the plan -- to sneak in and quietly lie down, and then go to sleep. No rousing Jaskier, no talking. Hmm? I see."

Geralt is unable to suppress the way he flinches. He feels like a small child -- one who has been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. He cannot summon the courage to rise from his bed -- instead, he curls a bit into a fetal position, tucking his chin into his chest, and waits for Jaskier to ... well, do whatever he plans to.

He hears the bard slide off his own bed, then pad over to his side of the room. 

A soft hand comes to rest on his upper back, and that gentle voice that he loves so much speaks close to his ear.

"Geralt? Won't you at least strip of your armour, love?"

_Love._

Geralt shivers involuntarily -- Jaskier throws around endearments entirely too casually, and yet, this time, it feels something special. Something deeper and far more serious.

"Come on, dear heart. Up you get."

Geralt sits up, relishing the warmth of the hand that stays firmly on his back. Jaskier plops down on the bed next to him. 

_And Geralt finds himself leaning against his bard of his own accord._

"My shy Wolf", Jaskier murmurs soothingly, his fingers gently threading through Geralt's tangled mass of milk-white tresses. Geralt keeps his eyes closed and his face downcast -- more vulnerable and soft and yielding than he has ever been before in his life. His heart hammers almost painfully hard in his chest, and it is all he can do to not burrow into his companion's chest and disappear from the rest of the world.

Jaskier reaches out and gently touches Geralt's cleft chin, and Geralt barely suppresses a whimper at the touch. "My silly Wolf", says the bard, and Geralt hears the love and affection that permeate those words.

"You remembered ... although I told you about my birthday only in passing. That too so many years back", Jaskier marvels, "And all this time, we never celebrated ... so, what changed, love?"

_What can Geralt say?_

_Can he make himself say it? Can he make himself admit out loud?_

_But then, what if Jaskier leaves? He is the one person who has stuck to Geralt through thick and thin for nearly two decades now ... but even he must have reached the limit of his tolerance for an abhorrent, despised mutant such as Geralt by now? Surely?_

_After all, nobody loves Geralt. Nobody but his Wolf brothers and father. Nobody likes to be around him, to accept him, to love him and care for him and keep him, just the way he is._

_Everyone always leaves. Everyone has always left. His mother. Yennefer. The few men and women he had dared to befriend and become close to when he was a young mutant, fresh out of Kaer Morhen and venturing onto the Path._

_Everyone always breaks his heart. Crushes his spirit. Shatters his hopes._

_Will Jaskier not do the same? Will Jaskier not abandon him after he confesses his feeli..._

"Geralt!"

Jaskier's slightly loud call breaks through Geralt's thoughts, jerking him back to the present. Jaskier's voice abruptly cuts through his bleak contemplation, stopping the way he was plummeting in a downward spiral of despair and dread and defeat.

"What's running through that head of yours, my Wolf?"

Geralt blinks owlishly at Jaskier, hoping the veil of unshed tears would not show too much in the dark despite the glimmer of his golden irises.

"If I tell you, will you leave?"

"What?", Jaskier asks, completely baffled.

"If I tell you what changed ... between us ... what changed inside me ... will you leave me?"

Jaskier's expression tightens, his jaw clenches. He turns around to fully face Geralt, and his hands come up ...

_... to cradle Geralt's face in them._

"Listen to me very carefully, Geralt of Rivia", Jaskier says slowly but firmly, his tone one that brooks no argument, and every word articulated with clarity and conviction, "Unless and until there dawns a day when you give me a direct order to leave you, when you express your desire for a life without me by your side, I am here to stay."

Geralt's eyes flit between Jaskier's cornflower-blue orbs, as if trying to ascertain whether he is speaking the truth. He looks like a drowning man -- one who is being offered a plank of wood to hold on to, and yet he is not sure if the plank will support his weight.

"You are my best friend, Geralt. Heck, you are _more_ than that. I cannot even begin to imagine a life without you. A life where I am not traversing the path by your side."

"Jaskier, I ...", the words are uttered in a whisper, and try as he might, Geralt can no longer reign in the tears, "You'll stay? You promise?"

"I promise", Jaskier says solemnly, immediately and without the slightest hesitation.

"I love you", Geralt blurts out, and slumps a bit as if the admission has robbed him of some of his strength, "I have been in love with you for a while."

The smile that splits Jaskier's face is like the sun -- Geralt thinks it lights up the entire room. And his entire world.

"Oh, baby!", the bard trills, pulling the now-decidedly-blushing Witcher into a rib-crushing hug, "Oh, Geralt! Trust me when I say to you, that you could not have given me a more precious gift on my birthday than this. Than these words. Oh, my sweet, sweet, gold-hearted, gold-eyed Witcher, I love you. I love you too. I love you so much!"

Geralt hides his face and his smile in the folds of Jaskier's shirt, and his tears soak Jaskier's shirtfront, and the two men clutch each other like each is the other's lifeline. They stay like that, until Jaskier leans back, and tilts Geralt's face up with a finger under his chin.

"Do you think, dear heart, that I could perhaps demand to be pampered a teensy bit more on my birthday?", he asks, wiggling his eyebrows, mischief coating his voice.

Geralt scoffs through his tears and rolls his eyes, but he cannot help his own dazzling smile.

"Demand away, Your Highness", he says mockingly, but his words are cut short as Jaskier's mouth lands on his. 

Geralt's breath is stolen away in that one fell swoop, as Jaskier's lips perfectly mould around his own, and the kiss that ensues is deep and passionate. The Witcher shivers, and his stomach flips in a series of somersaults, as Jaskier's dexterous fingers unfasten the cords and belts tying together the various parts of his armour. Within mere minutes, Geralt is dressed in nothing but his smallclothes, and then he proceeds to make an equally short work of undressing the bard.

Geralt is eased onto his back with more care and tenderness than he has ever received in his entire life, and the reassuring weight of Jaskier's warm body pinning him down anchors Geralt like no one ever has. Jaskier is gentle beyond anything Geralt has ever imagined, showering him with kisses and sweet, soft praises, paying attention to every inch of skin and every single scar on his bared torso, letting those warm, soft, plump lips trail down the sensitive skin behind his ears, the long column of his neck, his jawline and collarbones, pause and suck sweetness out of his nipples until he is left breathless and writhing in pain and pleasure. Jaskier maps Geralt's entire body with his mouth and fingers, and as Geralt begs for his touch where he most needs it, the bard's skilled lips wrap around his Witcher's throbbing cock. Jaskier is relentless with his ministrations, sucking and kissing and licking until Geralt is reduced to a tearful, incoherent mess.

"You deserve nothing but love. Love and care and happiness. You deserve to be given all the love there is in this world, dear heart, and though I do not have the power to give you all that you deserve, I shall make sure you know, for the rest of our lives together, that you are precious. You are needed. You are cherished."

The soft words are spoken in a whisper, but they nevertheless send shivers down Geralt's spine.

He closes his eyes, and tears leak down from underneath them, and Jaskier kisses them away. He buries his face in his bard's shoulder, and clings to him like he is afraid Jaskier would slip away any moment now. 

_He feels so afraid. So vulnerable. So small. So utterly, irrevocably laid bare._

"Trust me?", comes the question from just above him, and Geralt forces himself to open his eyes and stare straight into the cornflower-blue depths of the orbs boring into his own.

He nods.

Slowly, gradually, Jaskier enters him. Geralt's back arches off the bed as his mouth falls open in a moan. Jaskier murmurs soothing, soft words into his ear as his body adjusts to the stretch, until the bard sits fully sheathed in his Witcher. 

Geralt clings to his bard tighter and more desperately than ever before. Jaskier knows this, and he presses kisses on his beautiful mate's head and runs his nimble fingers through the white strands of hair hiding Geralt's face from him.

"I'm right here, sweetheart. Right here. Never to leave. Never."

"Please."

"Please what, my love?"

"Please don't leave."

"Never, my boo."

"I can't ... I can't live without you", Geralt pleads in a small voice, and Jaskier's heart breaks.

"Neither can I, without you, Geralt."

When Jaskier deems Geralt relaxing a bit, he sets a pace that is comfortable and gentle for the both of them. Geralt still clings to him, and Jaskier knows it and loves it and he holds onto Geralt as tightly, for he knows they are one now -- never to be separated again.

They move as one, plastered to one another. They breathe as one, their chests rising and falling in unison. They moan and whimper and writhe and flail as one, as their mouths plunder one another and their bodies reach their climaxes together. 

Jaskier pulls himself gently out of his mate, chuckling fondly as Geralt whines a little bit in protest. He makes sure to clean them both up, but Geralt is impatient. He pulls his bard back down and tucks him into his chest, cuddling him as tight as he can.

"Cuddle monster", Jaskier teases.

"Hmmm."


End file.
